


pull the pin out of my heart

by redeyedwrath



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alcohol, Anger, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Desperation, Getting Together, M/M, Making Out, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:47:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22243564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redeyedwrath/pseuds/redeyedwrath
Summary: There’s a nastiness to him, the curve of his fingers, the glint in his eyes, that is more than usual, and Sylvain, suddenly, istired. Felix always assumes the worst, calls him a whore, pretends he doesn’t matter, and Sylvain is just… tired.There is nothing left of him to give.He sighs, rubbing a hand over his face -hide your eyes, don’t show weakness, put on a smile— and curses Felix for this. He’s cold, and he just wants to sleep, and here Felix is, unfairly gorgeous and angry.—In which, they march on Enbarr tomorrow, and they're both tired, angry, drunk, and in love.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 9
Kudos: 183
Collections: Sylvix Squad Super Stories





	pull the pin out of my heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [akhikosanada](https://archiveofourown.org/users/akhikosanada/gifts).



> HOO BOY!!!!! Get ready for some angry Sylvix that turns soft y'all. This is for the lovely, lovely, _lovely_ Cha, who didn't get a Secret Santa gift, so I wrote one - belatedly - as a pinch hitter. This was for her prompt "anguished kissing," and Cha I hope you like it!!!!!! You deserve all of the gifts in the world <3
> 
> Also, to anyone else who's reading this, I hope you like it too haha. Enjoy!
> 
> Also, also, also, thank you to Mel for helping me with the dialogue, and thank you to [Cherry](https://ao3.org/users/cherryconke), [Silas](https://twitter.com/sylvainseboy), and [Bird](https://ao3.org/users/feroxai) for reading over this for me and encouraging me to finish it!!! I really appreciate it y'all <3

_And I wish I was poisonous  
_ _Like a bottomless sound, like a violent drug  
_ _Do you remember the knife I kept?  
_ _The sharper it got, the more you wanted me to use it_

**— Dive In, Pierce the Veil**

* * *

The second Sylvain steps outside the inn, the cold night air bites into him. His armor still lies in his tent, abandoned in a heap with the Lance of Ruin, and his undershirt is plastered to his back in sweaty patches.

The camp is just a small distance away, negligible compared to how far they’ve already come, yet it still seems too far to him. He rubs his hands against his arms, hoping the friction will keep him warm, and presses on. He’s cold and wet, and when he loses focus he can feel stone walls pressing in on him, sobbing cries for Miklan and his parents echoing around him. 

He breathes — in, then out, then in again — and forces his eyes to follow the distant flickering of the flames.

Their tents are easy to find like this — the only light sources are the inn behind him and the campfires ahead. The canvas is bone-white in the low light, ugly and nauseating. Sylvain looks at them and almost wishes he was anywhere else. 

He stretches, arms above his head, and pretends that tomorrow isn’t coming. 

The stars are the same as always, little pin pricks piercing the darkness. It’s kind of comforting, the perpetual nature of the cosmos, blue against the painted red of the earth. 

Goddess, he gets dramatic when he drinks. He’s twenty-four, he should really know better by now — though, perhaps, old habits die hard.

Camp is quiet for once, everyone either still at the inn or asleep already — celebrating life or preparing for the inevitable. Sylvain knows firsthand how much more intoxicating sleep can be than alcohol. 

_Fuck_ , he thinks, when he almost stumbles over one of the tent poles, followed by _shit_. Maybe not that much more intoxicating. Mud is smeared on his hands and shins where he caught himself, getting under his fingernails and turning his skin into icicles. 

Someone snorts from behind him.

Felix is sitting with his back to the canvas, a half-empty bottle balanced between his thighs. The green glass reflects the light of the campfire, highlighting the flush on Felix’s cheeks. His head is tipped back, eyes half-lidded, and he’s watching Sylvain with familiar disgust.

Sylvain — still sweaty, and cold, and with a pounding heart — steps forward. 

Some strands have escaped Felix’s ponytail, framing his face as he wraps his lips around the end of the bottle and _chugs_ , his adam’s apple bobbing up and down in a way that Sylvain would want to lick, but…

He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Felix drink. Not like this, anyway — ugly and desperate, too angry. Usually, Sylvain takes Felix drinking to see his eyes turn bright, to watch his cheeks flush a soft pink, to watch his shoulders loosen, just a bit. 

This Felix — legs spread and frowning, lazy as his fingers tick against the glass of the bottle — is nothing like that. 

“How many?” Felix asks, staring Sylvain down. Sylvain stares back, and — stupidly, maybe, but he can’t help it, he never can — steps closer, until the tips of his shoes are almost touching Felix’s soles. 

Felix, unperturbed, takes another swig; Sylvain’s fingers itch to reach out and smash that fucking bottle. 

“How many what?” Sylvain asks, and Felix’s eyes narrow — _stupid_ , he thinks again, _stupid stupid stupid_. Felix looks like a cat, but not like the ones at the monastery, who bask in attention and beg for scraps. He looks like the ones that live in Sreng, backs striped and fangs bared. 

Felix just raises an eyebrow. “How many women did you fuck tonight?”

Sylvain’s stomach drops, heart pounding in his throat, and he just stares at Felix, watching him sit, drunk and vicious. There’s a nastiness to him, the curve of his fingers, the glint in his eyes, that is more than usual, and Sylvain, suddenly, is _tired_. Felix always assumes the worst, calls him a whore, pretends he doesn’t matter, and Sylvain is just… tired. 

There is nothing left of him to give. 

He sighs, rubbing a hand over his face — _hide your eyes, don’t show weakness, put on a smile_ — and curses Felix for this. He’s cold, and he just wants to sleep, and here Felix is, unfairly gorgeous and angry. 

“You know, Felix,” he says, a smug smile on his face that’s so fake his jaw hurts and his teeth ache in the cold air. “You can be a real asshole sometimes.” 

Felix narrows his eyes, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, and chugs the rest of the bottle. Something shifts, something in the air that pricks at his skin and heats up his cheeks. They don’t break eye contact. Sylvain thinks _hit me, do it, give me your worst_. 

Felix snorts and averts his eyes. “Like you’re such a saint.”

He’s looking morosely down at his shoes, its toes painted an ugly brown, and something in Sylvain just snaps; it makes his blood boil, makes him dig his nails into his palms until his fingers turn an ugly, bloodless white. A part of him wants to shake Felix until he gets mad, until he fucking talks for once in his life. 

Instead, trying not to do anything stupid, he settles for asking: “What is going on with you today?”

Felix looks up at that, cheeks red, a muscle jumping in his jaw. He looks furious, indignant, enraged. He’s never seemed more beautiful.

“What is going on with _me_?” Felix asks, incredulous. “You go out to get drunk and party and you have the nerve to ask me that?”

A laugh escapes him at that, bitter and ugly in a way that he never tries to be. The fact that Felix, of all fucking people, is lecturing him on coping methods is unbelievable. Light bounces off the white canvas of the tent, giving the air around them an eerie glow, highlighting their imperfections.

“What am I supposed to do, swing swords around and pretend that everything's okay?” he scoffs, because _fuck_ that. 

Fuck him for being so sanctimonious, preaching something he doesn’t even practice himself. And Sylvain, usually, maybe, would fall to his knees for Felix’s doctrine, but not now. Not when they’re both drunk and cold and tired, and when everything is going wrong. Not when they’re marching out tomorrow, to Enbarr; not when this might be the last time they speak, just the two of them; not when all both of them can manage is a nauseating fury.

Felix leans back, his head thudding against the canvas, that hostile glint still in his eyes — because it’s Felix, of course it is, Sylvain doesn’t know why he expects anything different.

“You’re such a fucking fool, Sylvain,” he spits out, and it smells of alchohol and sourness. It’s unusual — Felix might be angry but he’s never angry like _this_ , not with Sylvain. And Sylvain is never angry like this back at him. It feels poisonous and he can’t fucking stop. 

“I’m only trying to make sure you’re okay.”

Felix laughs. He throws back his head and he laughs. It echoes through the camp, bounces off the tents, loud and vicious, an edge to it that makes Sylvain’s throat hurt. Felix’s hands are clenched around his knees, bottle clamped between his feet, arms shaking under the fur and fabric. 

“You don’t care about me,” Felix mumbles when he’s done, eyes still on the stars. He’s so far away suddenly, tears drying on his cheeks and Sylvain — Sylvain, he… 

That… He’d known Felix was drunk, had seen their inevitable confrontation, had known something would happen. Seiros knows they’re both fucked up enough without this, that they should savor what little time — what little innocence — they still have.

Sylvain is shocked stupid, just staring at Felix, his head flitting from one thought to another. He thinks about Felix when he was small and easily impressed, and when he came back embittered and a warrior. He thinks about Miklan, and Felix’s hand resting on his shoulder. He thinks about seeing Felix for the first time, _really_ seeing him, and thinking _oh. That makes sense_. He thinks about the sleepless nights, the times when he fucked a woman with dark hair, her face pressed into a pillow, and pretended like she was someone else. He thinks about the time when it became too much, when a pit grew in his stomach and grabbed his heart and tore it to shreds. 

Instead, he breathes out, “... What?”

The soft whisper — just a gasp, almost too quiet to hear — catches Felix’s attention, his head snapping up to stare at Sylvain, soft brown eyes boring into him in a way that leaves him breathless.

“I _said_ ,” Felix bites out, articulates slowly, “you don’t care about me. Are you deaf or just stupid?” 

It boils his fucking blood, makes his heart rage inside his chest, claws at his throat until all his most shameful thoughts threaten to spill out. As if he doesn’t care about Felix, as if he doesn’t feel anything, as if he had been able to think about anything else in the five years they hadn’t seen each other, as if he hasn’t been fucking _in love with him_ for the past few years. 

It’s like Felix just reached out and trampled one of the only things that felt real to him and set it on fucking fire.

Felix is just sitting there, still, like he’s frozen to the ground, glaring up at Sylvain, and Sylvain just… He’s so tired and angry and he just wants to sleep, pretend this conversation never happened and then throw himself onto a sword tomorrow, an honorable fucking death. 

He plans to turn away, to stomp off to his own tent and pretend like the Lance of Ruin is pulsing in the corner, to pretend the red spots on his arms are flushed patches of skin, freckles, not scars caused by spending hours on a snowy mountainside. He’s about to, and he telegraphs it — stupid, _stupid_ — and Felix trips him up, their legs tangling as he falls to the ground. 

The impact jars his wrists and he cringes, his knees soaked and cold. He stares at Felix, so furious he cannot even breathe, and he’s just lying there, challenging, eyebrows raised, resting back on his elbows, looking so impossibly beautiful and infuriating.

Sylvain jumps on him, pushes him back into the ground, doesn’t let him get up, and Felix grunts under him. They’re lying in the mud, freezing, but Sylvain doesn’t fucking care. Felix is looking at him like a caged Sreng cat, bucking up, trying to get him off, but Sylvain doesn’t let go. Felix’s wrist are small in his hands, tendons standing out, and Sylvain squeezes them till Felix goes limp. Good: he _hopes_ he leaves bruises.

“We could die tomorrow, do you realize that? Or is your brain too filled with women and sex to think clearly for one fucking second —” Felix spits, his eyes blazing. Sylvain wants to punch him, wants to shut him up, this is —

“That’s not fair —” he tries to interject, because he’s not, that’s not, but Felix —

“— oh no? You were out fucking partying while we could _die_ tomorrow. I could die, or you could die, and then I’d lose you too, and my father, and Glenn, and Dimitri, and you just sit there and do nothing, and you go out and have a great time, and I—”

Fuck him. _Fuck_ him. 

“Of course I know!” Sylvain shouts. “I can barely fucking think about anything else, can’t I just do something fun for a change? I close my eyes, and I see everyone dying around me, I see Miklan, I see you, covered in blood and not fucking breathing.”

It’s silent, suddenly. The only sounds are the soft crackling of the campfire and their breathing, heavy and angry. Felix stares up at him, eyes wide, beer spilled over their thighs and cooling their skin. 

“I—” Felix says, softly, like he doesn’t trust himself, breathless.

“Don’t pretend like you’re the only one who cares, Felix. I _care_ ,” he says, yells, prays.

Felix’s eyes widen. Sylvain swallows.

Suddenly, Sylvain is aware of the position he’s in; Felix’s legs clamped in between his, his weight resting on Felix’s stomach, Felix’s wrists still caught in his hands. He’s cold where his legs are resting on the ground — Felix must be freezing like this — but he… doesn’t care. 

Felix looks so good like this, cheekbones standing out in the shallow light of the campfires, eyelashes casting shadows. He’s covered in mud — it’s caked on his hair, smudged on his skin — and Sylvain is fucking breathless because of it. 

Softly, Sylvain nudges Felix’s nose with his, a caress. Felix’s breath comes out in quick, soft pants, flowing like a promise between them, and his eyes are filled with such a raw wonder, and Sylvain is just a man — he’s just a man, and he _wants_. 

“I care…” he breathes, again, hoping Felix believes him this time, and when Felix’s eyes widen — almost unnoticeable, but Sylvain is looking closely, he’s always looking closely — Sylvain leans down and kisses him. 

Felix — for all his anger and his drunkenness — kisses back. 

It’s not nice, or soft — it’s everything Sylvain hoped for, thought about, longed for. He’s cold and sweaty and gross and he never wants to be anywhere else. Felix yanks at his shirt, his fists clenched in the fabric, fingernails digging into Sylvain’s skin. All Sylvain can do is grab at Felix’s hair and pull his head back, greedily licking into Felix’s mouth for more until Felix is whining into his mouth, soft little sobs that make Sylvain’s heart skip a beat. 

He feels a sting at his lip; Felix’s teeth digging into his flesh until he thinks it’ll start bleeding, but he doesn’t care, he _doesn’t_ , his fingers scratching lines down Felix’s cheek to his neck. Felix’s breath hitches and Sylvain smiles — _I have you now,_ he thinks, and presses his nail against Felix’s skin _hard_. 

It hits Sylvain, suddenly, as Felix arches under him, that it is _Felix_ he’s kissing, it’s Felix’s tongue in his mouth, Felix’s skin under his hands, desperate and panting. It’s Felix, who Sylvain has loved since he was twelve, who he’s never stopped thinking about, who’s always been there, even if he wasn’t. 

Something in Sylvain’s chest grows until he feels like he’s going to burst. He pulls back, Felix’s face still cupped in his hands, cheeks warm against his cold fingers, his thumbs smearing mud on his skin. Felix’s eyes are still closed, his breathing fast and shallow, and his nails are digging in painfully to Sylvain’s shoulder, the thin layer of his shirt protecting against nothing. He doesn’t let go.

“Hey,” Sylvain says, smiling, forehead resting on Felix’s. Felix’s breath ghosts over his face, warm, a tangible reminder of how alive he is, and Sylvain is dizzy with it. He wants to stay here forever. “I won’t die tomorrow.”

Felix hums softly, the sound echoing between them, the vibrations carrying into Sylvain’s chest, and Sylvain goes willingly when Felix pulls him down. He’s leaning on his forearms, but he doesn’t care, Felix’s arms going around his shoulders, his fingers pushing through Sylvain’s hair and staying there. 

“You better not,” Felix mumbles, and Sylvain presses impossibly closer, until there’s not an inch left between them. He wants to stay here, like this, with Felix against him, warm and sharp edges softened, forever.

He knows, eventually, they’ll have to get up. He’s already starting to shiver, the cold wind biting at his soaked legs, at his exposed skin. They cannot outrun tomorrow, they’ll have to face Enbarr and Edelgard, avenge their friends and put Fódlan back together again, dig their fingers into it and yank the ugliness out until there’s nothing left. 

But for now, they’ll stay like this. Just for a little while. 

**Author's Note:**

> ... So that was a journey and a half, huh? I'd been wanting to write angry Sylvix for a while now and Cha gave me the perfect opportunity! I hope this wasn't too OOC, I kinda struggle with Sylvain's voice. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you liked it!!! Please please please leave a comment if you did, I really appreciate any feedback you'll give ^^ If you wanna comment and don't want me to reply (I usually do), put a * in front of it and I'll just thank you silently :p
> 
> (Also [follow me on Twitter](https://twitter.com/reverethedeer) maybe if you wanna?)


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